


Shirts and cats

by mellyb6



Series: Tis a Women's World [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cats, Children, d'Artagnan the apprentice Musketeer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan learns that being a Musketeer does not mean you have to do all the work by yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shirts and cats

**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by nettlestonenell's Tumblr post on Female representation: http://nettlestonenell.tumblr.com/post/114049003597/female-representation
> 
> Prompt: the woman who mends your cape, launders your shirt
> 
> As always, English isn't my first language.

There are loud noises in the corridor leading to d'Artagnan's room at the Garrison. He has only been staying there for a week, and even though he is used to most of the Musketeers' routine, this sounds different. He is used to sparring, swords clashing, doors banging, horses neighing, trampling the hard ground in the courtyard. He is used to pistol shots, yells, crude laughter, Captain Tréville shouting at the top of his lungs. He is used to snores, hard boots against wooden floors, windows being closed roughly, meowling cats begging for food.

He is not used to pattering. He is not used to children's giggles. He is not used to soft knocks and gentle voices.

He is half-dressed when he opens the door, his shirt hanging loose and no boots on.

« Yes ? » He blinks at the stranger looking up at him, the woman who is about to reprimand the little girl tugging on her skirt, but stops short when she gazes at his unfamiliar face.

« You're new, » she states, repositioning her heavy basket against her hip, one hand grasping the collar of a small boy's shirt to prevent him from entering d'Artagnan's room.

« I am. I received my commission last Saturday. I'm d'Artagnan. » He waves out of habit, a proud smile on his lips as he recalls Athos strapping the pauldron on his shoulder. He would sleep with it, but if the others were to find out, he would be mortified.

« I'm Paule. » She smiles back, the wriggling boy escaping her. D'Artagnan kneels to his level, stopping him. The child is suddenly uncertain to be so close of a person he does not know at all.

« And what's your name ? » There's a finger in the child's mouth and he takes his time, studying the soldier's face.

« Charles, » he says eventually after looking up at his mother.

« That's a fantastic name ! It's my name, actually. »

« You said your name was d'Artagnan. » And the soldier laughs at the boy's forwardness.

« It is. Charles is my Christian name. It's the best name, trust me. »

« Do you have a sword ? »

« Yes, I do. Would you care to see it ? » Charles' anwer is an eager nod, all shyness forgotten.

« We're not here to bother Musketeers. » He sticks his tongue out at his sister who frowns and crosses her small arms on her chest.

« We're not indeed. I apologize, he has always been fond of weapons, which is probably not a good thing. »

« As long as he doesn't get hurt, » d'Artagnan reassures the mother, smiling. « Did you need something ? »

« Oh yes ! I'm sorry. I'm the launderer and I wanted to see if you had any shirts which required.... »

« Not for him ! » She's interrupted by Aramis who strides in their direction, a handful of dirty clothes in his hands.

« And why not ? » she asks as he dumps them in her basket, only to have them replaced by an excited little girl who claims all his attention and steals the hat from his head. There's genuine amusement in Aramis' eyes.

« He hasn't been here long enough to earn the priviledge of your services, Paule. »

d'Artagnan scoffs.

« And how do you suggest I obtain clean shirts ? »

« Well, you wash them yourself, of course ! » Aramis grins above a head of unruly red curls. 

Paule slaps his arm, and almost drops her basket for her troubles. D'Artagnan rushes to her help.

« Actually, I would ask you to wash mine as well, but I wouldn't want to deprive our wonderful Paule of work. »

« Of magnanimous of you. »

« Aren't I the best ? Now, Angélique, why don't we go to the kitchen while your mother finishes collecting laundry ? I believe there's a new litter of cats. We'll find you one to take home. »

« You better not, Aramis ! » Paule's warning is lost as the Musketeer tips his hat at her, then strides back down the corridor, one child on his heels and the other hanging on his neck.

« Give me your shirts, d'Artagnan. »

« Absolutely ! »

His room is in a state of disarray. He does not own much but a few days were enough to misplace much of it. He only has three shirts, including the one on his back. He quickly locates the two others and places them gently on top of her basket.

« I'll carry it for you, » he offers, relieving her of the burden. He shuts his door, not bothering to lock it and they make their way down to the courtyard.

« I thought we were supposed to wash our own laundry. » She laughs at the remark, shakes her head.

« Would you ? » d'Artagnan gives her a sheepish look. He cannot remember the last time his shirts were actually washed. « Besides, I do need the money. And the children love coming here. It's much better than other barracks. »

« Yeah ? »

« Definitely. More lively, even if some of your fellow soldiers are menace. I should collect the children before Aramis convinces them to adopt more cats. »

d'Artagnan follows her dutifully as she makes her way around the place. She knows the Garrison better than he does and an hour later, the dirty shirts are forgotten in a corner of the kitchen as the Musketeers and the family eat breakfast, kittens running wild on the floor-tiles.

When Paule reaches the wash house afterwards and she empties her basket, it comes as no surprise that a white ball of fur springs out of a shirtsleeve, much to her children's delight.

 


End file.
